


Wheel of the Year

by 57821



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, F/F, Ribbons, being meguca is suffering and homura is gay, color symbolism, implied fear of sexual assault but its one line, implied onesided madohomu, its not between the girls btw, lots of foreshadowing, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28883205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/57821/pseuds/57821
Summary: Mami always sees through Homura's act.
Relationships: Akemi Homura/Tomoe Mami
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	Wheel of the Year

**Author's Note:**

> "You leave a bit of blood in every room. Purple roses underneath your shoes. When I see the petals by the pool, I know that you've been here."  
> \- George by Arlo Parks

Ripping out the thick starchy fabric from the edges of her braids, Homura exchanges royal purple plaits for an unfurling wave of black against lucky red. When she first holds her soul gem in between her fingertips after her first freshly defeated witch, within it she finds purple just beginning to muddle up. Pressing a grief seed against it, violet shines in her, against her eyes like a joke.

“She’s very regal, isn’t she?” Is the first thing Homura hears Madoka say that day she frees her hair.

A warmth stirs within her at Madoka’s words and it’s almost like yesterday didn’t happen. Homura pushes the tip of her finger against the bridge of her nose. Force of habit. 

Good-bye to Gretchen.

Homura has long grown accustomed to tying up uniform standard cherry-stained bows fit for the season, folded neat against her crisp white collar. 

Loop, slip, and cinch, a pattern running her fingers ragged. Again, and again, and again. 

Luck is a word as foreign to her as the fractions and divisions that were once her burden. With every turn, she has since memorized all the formulas all while those slips of rogue wrap around her neck. Planting themselves into her, winding spider lilies digging down deep into her flesh, pouring themselves into that invisible open wound lodged in her throat.

Akemi Homura’s voice was always her biggest weakness. The convent taught her that. And as for Madoka, it is their shared curse. She doesn’t need to be reminded of what that entails, for she lives within it every day and if she falters, there will be no blood-let lily seeped out memories set in the shape of a white lily flower wreath for her. But one thing for certain in all of these lived out lives is that Homura herself will never get them. 

Perhaps it was fitting, of Madoka, to have her soul torn up into a piece of dusty pink round her neck. Connecting them.

But for now, Homura does what she only can.

Stop, rewind, repeat.

* * *

Biting down a barrel of lead in between her teeth, Homura turns the tables for the first time in her life and reverts from the observee to the observer. 

This means getting caught up with them. Those three. 

It’s like they’re all in it, in this game with Him, that Thing, to torture Homura - to bring Her to her fate. More often than not, she is painted selfish. It’s not like she has a choice in this anymore at this point.

Mami always treats her right, though. With her strange habit of offering up her heart to strangers wrapped up like the sweets she bakes. Biting into buns filled up with bittersweet red bean paste topped with sesame seeds, still fresh when she comes to her and always offered to her first by Mami, unknowingly, Homura’s favorite. 

Sweet buns bring her back to that very first time after Madoka and Mami saved her. All cooped up in that apartment, inherited, like that magic ebbing out from Mami’s soul, her salvation and her condemnation. Offering sanctuary up in her little cage, steaming up water with practiced etiquette. There was a time where Homura wished to be poised as she, before all of this. But no matter what, her hands shook, spilling scalding water over herself, fresh tears bundling up at the seams of her eyelids. 

Now Homura rarely cries and she holds the tea-pot steady in between fingers as she pours. Mami blows over the steam rising from her cup. Madoka smiles but with a hint of something lying underneath those eyes. Homura almost feels at ease.

Another life, another day, and she finds herself leaning against Tomoe Mami way too often as she keeps an eye on Madoka and pulses barrels of lead through that Thing. She doesn’t tell them she’s from the past this time. They don’t trust her enough as it is. She doesn’t blame them, she wouldn’t either and these days, even she doubts her judgement.

Tomoe Mami pours over her like honey and she could never stoop that low to put someone like Madoka against her. A too-perfect reflection of her shattered self and the similarities they share near sicken her. There once was a time she would have adored her for it. Resentment has tainted her, it seems.

Often, they’ve come to press the barrels of their guns against each other’s soul gems. You can guess who always wins. It’s almost laughable, at how far they’ve come from breaking up pieces of anpan, sencha warm against their lips. 

But in this life, they’re in stasis and she’s actually listening to her. Maybe it’s that utter desperation running through Mami's bones. What’s left of them, anyway and  Mami has not met Madoka yet.  Good. 

They’ve picked up an alliance, chasing after the same old witches but sometimes a new one pops up. Like tonight. The night is young as she and the hungered incubator spent shell they’ve just killed. Bertha, the Carved Witch, pushed to the margins with her forestry and fire. And them, ripping apart her wavering shadow with rays of light and metal spent machinery. 

At times, Homura wonders how Mami manages with that corset digging into her ribcage, magic healing up her crushed up bones as she twirls around ribbons promising poison in the color of sunshine. She’s usually as rigid as her magic but tonight after the witching hour, she’s smiling.  Laughing at her fate and she’s never seen Mami this happy. Ever. 

“We did it. It was so powerful but we did it!” She's absolutely glowing and her soul gem burns brightly along with her but Homura knows better and spots a darkness pooling within her. 

Grabbing her hand, Mami cries out but doesn’t pull away. Pressing the grief seed against her soul pinned up against her hair, Mami’s hands are warm against her. Pocketing the seed away, Homura looks up into Mami’s face.  Their hands are still holding. 

“Can I?” Not a question for Homura but a plea.

Homura nods. 

Noses bumping against each other like the first time all over again, they pull back. Homura feels Mami tremble against her hand. Mami tries again, tilting her head and Homura closes her eyes shut, following her lead and she melts under her touch. Hands clinging tight, Mami brushes her thumb against hers and there’s so much life within her, within them both waiting to burst forth and maybe, just maybe. ` `

But Mami’s lips are too soft for what she deserves and Homura pulls away from her touch and it’s as if she were entering school that first day many moons ago. Thumbing the white gingham folds of her black skirt, she looks down and Mami’s too light voice grates against her ears, "This isn't our first time, is it it, Akemi-san?"

Homura isn’t sure if she’s alluding to the kiss or-

"You’re always predictable." Homura lies through her teeth. Time has since taught Homura of what really lies under that bundle of blonde yet still she manages to find ways to surprise her with every timeframe. It frightens and exhilirates her all the same.

Mami smiles. “Oh?”

Dark hair falls against her, blocking her peripheral vision yet Mami’s eyes burn into her all the same as Homura brushes down her skirt, reaching down to grab at her school bag. 

It’s time to go. Someone else needs her more than this.

“Homura?” Mami doesn’t use an honorific and it’s the first time she’s addressed her by her name in many turns. Looking back, she looks Mami in the eye. 

“If you need help again, I’m always a call away.” 

Tomoe Mami is a promising young girl who will never live past their shared age.

“Just always be frank with me, okay?” Her arms are crossed and her chest is puffed but her voice wavers and the corners of her eyelids are wrinkled. 

Even when Mami tries to put up a front, it always breaks through that ray of light. Like her, except she has a weapon of her own. One of the few advantages of living multiple lives, Homura has grown strong in the art of performance.

So with a nod, Homura humors her, knowing that regardless of what trick Mami will attempt to pull up out of that feathered beret, it’ll always end up the same. 

Homura’s footsteps fall heavy on the pavement against the unfurling night that Mitakihara brings. It has been long since she has feared the dark. There are worse things that can befall her than a stumbling leech with no idea of what he’s about to deal with. 

Reaching to her mouth with her free hand, she drags a finger across her bottom lip. Biting the flesh inside of her cheek, Homura curls the bitten-down stubs of her fingernails into the tough darkened leather of her school bag. Picking up her pace to nowhere, the heels of her loafers echo against concrete.

She has a job to do and besides, she isn’t here for Mami’s sake.

**Author's Note:**

> homura: i wont compare mami and madoka  
> homura: *fucking does it anyways*
> 
> the bread homura eats is called anpan btw. sencha is apparently the most popular type of green tea in japan?
> 
> also the witch "bertha" is based off bertha mason from jane eyre.


End file.
